|Author:||Alan P. Lightman|
Alan Lightman’s first novel, Einstein’s Dreams, was greeted with international praise. Salman Rushdie called it “at once intellectually provocative and touching and comic and so very beautifully written.” Michiko Kakutani wrote in The New York Times that the novel creates “a magical, metaphysical realm . . . as in Calvino’s work, the fantastical elements of the stories are grounded in precise, crystalline prose.” With The Diagnosis, Lightman gives us his most ambitious and penetrating novel yet.
While rushing to his office one warm summer morning, Bill Chalmers, a junior executive, realizes that he cannot remember where he is going or even who he is. All he remembers is the motto of his company: The maximum information in the minimum time.
When Bill’s memory returns, “his head pounding, remembering too much,” a strange numbness afflicts him, beginning as a tingling in his hands and gradually spreading over the rest of his body. As he attempts to find a diagnosis of his illness, he descends into a nightmare, enduring a blizzard of medical tests and specialists without conclusive results, the manic frenzy of his company, and a desperate wife who decides that he must be imagining his deteriorating condition.
By turns satiric, comic, and tragic, The Diagnosis is a brilliant and disturbing examination of our modern obsession with speed, information, and money, and what this obsession has done to our minds and our spirits.
In the bravura opening chapter of Alan Lightman’s novel The Diagnosis, a nameless horror befalls Boston businessman Bill Chalmers in the hubbub of his morning commute. As he jostles his way aboard the train and makes cell-phone calls to check last-minute details on his morning meeting (for Bill is punctilious), a realization surfaces in his brain, “like a trapped bubble of air rising from the bottom of a deep pond.” He has forgotten where he’s going. All he can remember is his anxious urgency and his company’s creed, “The maximum information in the minimum time.” Acutely aware that he’s got a 9:15 appointment, but recalling only the first six digits of his phone number, Bill helplessly gazes out the window. “Trees flew by like flailing arms…. Railroad tracks fluttered by like matchsticks. Trees, white and gray clapboard houses with paint peeling off, junkyards with stacks of flaccid tires.” Lightman’s Kafka pastiche is as pitch perfect as his verbal music: note the rhyming x sounds in stacks and flaccid (which is not pronounced “flassid”).
Terrifyingly soon, Bill is mad, homeless, beaten, and experimented on by comically evil doctors. He recovers and reunites with his family, but inexorably, mysterious paralysis ensues. Doctors try to diagnose him. Coworkers offer empty condolences and plot to steal his fast-track job. His wife seeks consolation with a passionate virtual lover on the Internet, a professor she’s never met in the flesh. His teenage son triumphantly hacks into AOL’s Plato Online, and Bill’s last days are counterpointed with the trial of Socrates and his troubled, rich inquisitor Anytus. Instead of the real story, we get a second shimmering Lightman fable. Anytus’s strife with his rebel son, a Socrates supporter, parallels Bill’s grief as his son is distanced from him by illness.
Though I felt glimmerings of understanding from time to time, I never did fully figure out exactly what the Socrates story and Bill’s decline have to say about each other, nor what Bill’s paralysis says about modern times. I implore a smarter reader to explain it to me in the customer comments below. But I can tell you that every character is resonant, and every sensory particular is exquisitely precise, as in Lightman’s biggest hit, the Italo Calvino pastiche Einstein’s Dreams. —Tim Appelo